


With Baubles Men Are Led

by sarahgene12



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathtub Sex, Blood, M/M, Post-Barricade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: Javert has just returned from the barricade, and is tired of death. He needs to cleanse himself of the day and the blood. While he's indisposed, a familiar face arrives at his door.





	

Javert unbuttoned his coat. The matron had boiled pails of good, clean water and filled the copper tub nearly to the brim. She had laid out a selection of oils for him as well, and taken the liberty of half-emptying one labeled Essence de citron into the water, producing mountains of foam and filling the small room with the overwhelming scent of ripe fruit. He would smell like a high-class whorehouse by the end of the evening, he was certain, but no matter.   
The day had required full battle dress; now at the end of it he was dusty and muddy, and his boots had waded through the rebels’ blood until the leather had turned nearly purple on the toe and heel. He’d removed his hat at the door already, and now he pulled the gloves, once shining white, from his hands. They’d become completely soiled in the day’s pursuits, and were now more the color of urine. He tossed them without a thought on the floor, and they fell with a wet sound.  
Secondly the silver epaulettes on his shoulders, unblemished and starched stiff. He laid them down on the chair beside the tub. With this finished he removed his coat, pausing a moment to run his thumb over the puckered tear on the left chest, the blank spot where once his officer’s Légion d'honneur medal had been pinned. Somewhere across the city, a little boy was wearing it now, lined up cold with the rest of the boys who had died in an unnecessary battle.   
The cravat he hung over one post of the chair. Top trousers and tunic were folded neatly and placed upon the stand holding the other bath oils. His boots, which would have to be entirely replaced now— he could scrub and cover up the stains with boot-black but the blood would always be there—were nevertheless safely tucked under the stool, away from where any bathwater could tarnish the leather.  
This last step was always the one he dreaded.   
Though properly fed and bathed and nurtured (primarily by his own hand) as an adult, as a child Javert had gone abandoned and malnourished, at the mercy of the orphanages. Because of this, wounds never healed properly, resulting in numerous scars, and he was much more susceptible to the cold than a well-cared-for child might have been. In the winters and summer months, his lungs did not fill and deflate quickly enough for him to suitably breathe. As a man, Javert was extremely conscious of the condition of his body, and by faith and virtue had never allowed another being to see him unclothed.   
In the privacy of the rented flat, he delicately folded the thin cotton trousers and undershirt and placed them on top of the rest. His hands did not appeal to the eye as instruments made for such gentle tasks; with palms as wide across as tea saucers and fingers thick as ropes they seemed more like workman’s hands, as if they would make easy work of shipyards and machinery.   
Sniffing disdainfully at the perfume of lemons wafting from the bath, Javert dipped first one foot then the other into the water, and sighed with satisfaction. He lowered himself completely amongst the puffs of foam, sinking low enough to have the water cover him up to his chin.   
The water was still very hot, and his tired body was grateful. Though he was not a man to allow himself many earthly pleasures, this was one, one gratuitous privilege he could find no harm in indulging. Tight muscles loosened and grey, scarred skin was pinked and softened by the oils; closing his eyes, Javert sank himself completely under, running his immense fingers through his hair to rid it of dirt and sweat.   
He stayed under for as long as his weakened lungs would allow, then surfaced again. The outside air compared to the water was very cold, and he sunk down again almost immediately.   
The second time he was underwater, consumed by the way the whole world sounded like a cello being played in a tin box, his mind was alerted to another sound.   
Were those footsteps?  
Javert sat upright again, blowing foam away from his lips.   
“Oh!”  
The figure in the doorway was sheathed in shadows, far out of reach of the pair of candles’ glow. And yet, and yet—by the mere form of the shoulders, by the man’s incredible height, and by the single syllable uttered, Javert was able to identify who it was.  
“My sincere apologies, Javert. The matron assured me you were decent.”  
Jean Valjean was a man of many talents; concealing embarrassment was not one of them. His patrilineal face was flushed a deep shade of pink and his mouth seemed incapable of forming real words.   
Javert eyed the worn cotton towel perched on the far end of the tub. He had halfway convinced himself that Valjean had caught him compromised in this way on purpose, to throw him off his guard, when his old prisoner stepped out of the shadows and into the dull orange light.   
Valjean was of course fully dressed, in an overcoat Javert knew he favored; it was moss green and frayed a bit on the seams, though otherwise unmarred and perfectly well cared for.   
Unless the Inspector was imagining it, there was more white in the old mayor’s curls than there’d been just a fortnight before.   
Realizing Valjean was expecting a response, Javert cleared his throat and dared himself to meet his adversary’s eye. There was no pretending he was as dignified as he wished to be for such a confrontation. “That is the old woman’s fault. More likely she has possessed a resentment of me and saw this as a fine way to have it rectified.”   
Valjean laughed softly. The sound was new to Javert; he could remember only one instance of having seen the ex-convict even smile, and that was before he himself realized the true identity of his beloved mayor. His laughter was entirely alien in the Inspector’s ears, and altogether the most pleasant sonance he’d heard in many years. Despite the completely uncomfortable situation the two found themselves in currently, Javert found himself grinning.   
“I’m afraid you’ve found me disrobed. Would you mind—would you be so kind as to fetch me the towel?”  
Valjean baulked. A stone sank to the center of Javert’s stomach. For the single, fleeting moment, the years of hate and resentment had gone from between them, and Javert had—what? Not flirted, surely. After fifty years of life without a single affair, he doubted he possessed the means to do such a thing. The devotion to his work left no time for the touch of a woman, and his faith forbade the touch of a man. Not, of course, that he desired either. To even dwell on the idea was a grievous sin.  
“Apologies, monsieur, I shall do it myself.” Javert sat further upwards in the tub, praying the foam sufficiently covered him, and reached for the thin cotton towel on the far edge. Valjean turned his back.  
For a moment, Javert marveled, as he had before, at the sheer expanse of flesh which this man possessed. Even while he’d been on the brink of starvation Valjean’s shoulders had been nearly twice as wide as the average man’s, and now, as he was the picture of health, their breadth both terrified and fascinated the Inspector. He recalled the afternoon ‘Mayor Madeleine’ had lifted a cartful of bricks off old man Fauchelevant, and the moment of revelation which had followed.   
“Are you finished?”   
Javert started. “Ah, not just yet, no. I’m afraid it’s a bit beyond my reach.” This was very nearly true: in order to adequately reach the towel he would have to fully raise himself from the tub, something he was certainly not willing to do in Valjean’s presence, back turned or not. And, he supposed, having the good monsieur retrieve it for him would not only tally a mark on his side of the board, but it would also bring Valjean closer instead of requiring him to leave the room completely.  
As it always seemed to do, Valjean’s innate goodness prevailed, and he turned and crossed the room to the tub. He seated himself on the thin lip of the tub and handed Javert the towel.   
“Careful, it’s dipping into the water,” he cautioned, in a low voice that resembled a tone used with small children; Javert wondered with a sudden flash of indignation if he used the same voice with his daughter.  
“Valjean I am perfectly capable—kindly turn your back, and I shall stand!”  
When he had done as Javert asked, the Inspector gripped the edge of the bath with one hand and stood up carefully, wincing at the ache in his knees and in the small of his back.   
For a moment he considered his position. Then he wrapped the towel securely around his waist and lamented how dreadfully awry the evening had gone.  
“Very well, monsieur, I am decent.”   
Valjean stood up, and turned to face him.  
The unabashed transformation of expression in his old enemy’s face would later occur to Javert as one as such he’d never seen. The moment that it happened, however, he couldn’t think a single thing.   
The good mayor’s thin mouth hung just slightly open, and in the silence of the room his breath could be heard, each made with slightest more effort than was needed. Javert looked up.  
Valjean’s eyes were ordinarily kind, warm and reassuring to each who met them. Right now however they were dark, and wide, and there was a vein in his forehead just above his left that was pulsing, and the sight struck a dull fear into Javert.  
“Forgive me, Javert,” muttered Valjean in a voice distant and uncharacteristically tenuous, “I can’t recall having ever seen you out of your uniform.”   
The Inspector swallowed, noticing that the inside of his mouth had gone dry as sandpaper. “There—there would be no reason for you to do so, m-monsieur. I have nearly always held a position of power over you and such is required—”  
He was muted by the movement of Valjean’s hand; stepping back as to greaten the distance between them, Valjean placed his supple palm in the center of Javert’s chest. Now the taller man’s lips were fully parted, and his bright pink tongue darted out and dampened the lower one. The act was so sensual, so inexplicably obscene that Javert shut his eyes, squeezing them tight.   
“Don’t be afraid, Inspector. I’m not going to hurt you.”  
There was the kind voice again. The voice at least in Javert’s mind was reserved for the elderly, and for children. But it was somehow different.   
“No one’s ever touched you, have they?”   
Javert’s muscles tightened. He had no idea what Valjean meant to do, or what exactly he was playing at; all he really knew was that these last words sent a hard chill down the length of his body, and it was not unpleasant.   
“N-n-no, monsieur, they have n-not. I-I am a responsible agent of the law, and by my virtue I—I do not allow myself to indulge—that is, to commit, c-c-certain phys—physical acts!”  
Still with his eyes closed, Javert heard Valjean shift his weight; the hand left his chest and he could tell the other man had stepped closer.  
“Oh but dear Javert, human beings need to be touched. That is not a sin. How can it be, when God Himself molded within us a requisite for affection?  
Javert drew a shuddering breath. Though he would not admit it even to his own mind, Valjean’s quiet murmurings so near his bare damp skin were entirely undoing him.  
“Valjean, I m-must protest! I do not know why you—what could have possibly possessed you to—”  
The ex-convict and soon to be ex-Mayor then did a completely unexpected thing. Whilst Javert was giving his half-hearted protest, he lowered his head and kissed the Inspector’s shoulder. His exuberant grey curls tickled Javert’s ear.   
Javert nearly crumbled right then and there. He opened his eyes to find Valjean staring at him, a quaint smile hinting at the right corner of his mouth.   
“It is not a sinful thing, Javert. I find you to be a very handsome man. But I will refrain if it makes you uncomfortable. I do not wish to harm you.”  
Javert bowed his head, painfully aware of his nakedness. A moment later, he became alert to the fact that Valjean had stepped away, and was now across the room.  
“Monsieur?” He called, still not looking up.   
“Just a moment. I’m only removing my coat.” Javert heard the rustling fabric, the quiet click of the old mayor’s boots on the worn wooden floor. He waited.  
“I’m here.”  
Javert started; he hadn’t heard Valjean approach him, and his voice had come from just behind his left ear.  
“You don’t have to move yet. Stay absolutely still. Close your eyes, if you wish.”  
Javert did, and thought he could hear Valjean moving. Seconds later, soft lips pressed themselves to his skin, high on his neck and just under the jawline. The tiniest whimper escaped from the inspector’s own lips, and he felt a stirring just below his belly.   
Valjean’s lips traced the curve of his neck with gentle kisses, down and down until they reached his collarbone. Valjean seemed to be humming quietly to himself as he followed the shape of it, and once Javert felt the tip of his tongue dart out and drink from the little pool of bathwater trapped there.   
There was no denying it now; though he had barely known the sensation since he was a young man, Javert felt himself growing aroused. The inside of his mouth felt like he had eaten sand and been denied water.  
“Javert? Is it alright if I kiss you now?”  
Oh, but his heart was running wild in his chest. He could not find the words to speak, so he nodded.  
When Valjean finally kissed him, Javert felt a warmth, an inexplicable glow, burst inside himself and grow until it filled him from his crown to the very tips of his toes, and he felt Valjean’s hand reach up and cradle the back of his head.   
Valjean sighed pleasurably and pressed himself closer. His other hand moved from the center of Javert’s back and was suddenly gone; it left behind a chill, and Javert moaned unhappily.  
And then. And then suddenly he felt Valjean’s callused fingers brush between his thighs, and wrap gently around his cock. His breath was stolen from him.  
“Monsieur M—” Javert’s eyes flew open, and he could see the man standing before him. Valjean’s brow was beaded with sweat, and when his hand squeezed Javert tighter he himself let out a small cry; Javert saw that he had not only removed his coat but his cravat and tunic as well, and with a cautionary glance downwards he discovered that the old mayor was just as naked as he was, and just as aroused.   
As Valjean worked his hand into a slow, rough rhythm, Javert felt his legs tremble. He let his eyes wander over the ex-con’s scarred and beaten body, marveling at the sheer strength in his chest, the way the muscles moved in his arms; he had secretly admired Valjean’s physique in the prisons for years, had pictured these shoulders in his mind at night. But never would he have ever imagined—  
“Here, like this,” whispered Valjean suddenly, his voice hoarse. He took Javert’s hand in his, and guided it to his own body. He showed the inspector how to hold him as he did, and as he guided Javert’s fingers, the only sounds in the room were the two of them breathing, panting.   
“Valjean—Valjean I can’t, I—I—ah! I don’t—”  
Valjean moaned, leaning forward into Javert, thrusting his hips at the other man’s inexperienced hand. His thumb found the head of the Inspector’s cock and slid roughly against the tip and Javert too dissolved nearly into nothingness. He grasped at Valjean for balance, his hips shuddering against the mayor’s hand. He was panting openly into Valjean’s ear now, shallow, urgent breaths, and perhaps unwittingly he wrapped an arm about the taller man’s shoulders, his legs no longer able to support him as they are pressed together.  
“Please monsieur—” Javert begged, his eyes wide, his whole body shuddering. Valjean had never before heard the man beg, not for anything, and the sound of it nearly finished him.  
“The—the bath! The bath, Javert, now!”  
Valjean’s urgent words puzzled Javert, but he thought he understood what he wanted him to do. Neither man wanted to break the hold they had on one another, and as Javert stepped back into the tub and settled himself down in the warm water, he gaped at Valjean’s sheer size and wondered if the old convict had done this sort of thing before.  
His own erection was throbbing, almost painfully. Part of him was afraid, not entirely certain what was going to happen next as Valjean lowered himself too into the bath and with gentle hands, parted the Inspector’s strong thighs.   
This was an entirely new Valjean, curls rampant from Javert’s tugging and face flushed with lust, the eternal expanse of his skin beaded with sweat and bathwater. He leaned forward between Javert’s legs and kissed him roughly, running his tongue over the other man’s bottom lip; Javert gave him access almost immediately and raised himself just a bit out of the water to match the force of the kiss, moaning a little louder now as Valjean’s hands stroked and kneaded him under the water.   
He felt first one, then two strong fingers push into him; Valjean worked torturously slow and Javert reached out and took the mayor in hand again, as he’d showed him, moving his hand in a clumsy rhythm. They were nearly gasping in tandem now, and the hand Valjean wasn’t using on Javert gripped the edge of the tub, losing traction as the water splashed and spilled onto the floor.   
When the inspector spoke next, his voice was rough and breathless, and he could hardly believe the words were from his own mouth: “Baise-moi! Oh Dieu veuillez monsieur! Baise-moi!”  
Valjean cried out desperately, every muscle in his body stretched and taut to their limit, and when he lowered himself completely on top of Javert again the copper walls of the tub groaned in protest. With only a second of rest, he positioned himself directly between Javert’s spread legs and pushed into him as slowly as either of their bodies could stand.   
Javert screamed, hands scrambling for any kind of hold as Valjean thrust into him again, pushing his back against the far wall of the bath.  
“Oh god, oh God Javert!” Valjean’s hips moved faster, pushing harder, and water rose up the lip of the tub every time they did, soaking the floor. Javert clenched his hands on Valjean’s ass, guiding him, his nails digging into soapy flesh. When next their lips met it was with enough force to drive their teeth together with a hard clack!.   
Javert had only a fleeting thought of the matron downstairs, and of the sounds he and Valjean were making, and of the fact that certainly the tub’s erratic tattoo on the floor as it rocked back with every thrust could be heard just a story below.   
It didn’t matter now; he could feel his body reaching a state that felt not unlike when his foot would go to sleep, only much more pleasant and deeper than his very bones. His fingers gripped Valjean’s back as the ex-convict’s pushing grew more urgent, and the tub rocked and there were sparks flying in his mind.   
There was hardly any water left now and every time Javert’s back met the slope of the bath it jarred him, and he was clawing at Valjean’s back and there might have been blood; the expression on the other man’s face was heavenly, and in the final moments Javert merely watched him, the way the muscles in his jaw clenched and the curls bounced on a little on his head now, as soaked as they were with sweat and bathwater. Javert dug his heels into the backs of Valjean’s and raised his hips higher, feeling an ache settle in to his battered body and relishing even that. And how, now as he could feel Valjean’s seed flow hot into his body and the taller man roared, how for a moment his eyes opened wide and the candlelight turned them the color of honey.  
Seconds later Javert felt his own release and then it no longer mattered what any of the other tenants might hear; he matched the other man’s cries and pushed himself down onto Valjean’s cock with as much strength as he had left.   
There was pain, but only a little, and it didn’t matter. Valjean let his body collapse on top of Javert, chest heaving, and in the first few seconds of the after he did something which took Javert completely by surprise: he gave the inspector a very quick but very tender kiss on the cheek.  
The gesture was so chaste compared to what they’d just done that Javert managed a smile. He laid back his head on the edge of the nearly-empty tub, feeling the tension in his own body die away and give way to a dull, dreamy ache.   
Valjean saw the smile and wondered at it, able only to recall one other time he’d seen the expression on such an otherwise wretched face.   
For a long time, neither moved, and neither spoke. The air was sweet with the smell of lemons, and little whisps of steam rose from the puddles on the floor.   
When finally he thought he could manage to stand, Valjean got up and stepped out of the tub, offering Javert his hand. The inspector took it, no longer smiling but staring at their interlocked fingers.   
“Come,” whispered Valjean. “We should rest.” He walked towards the small cot against the furthest wall, and Javert followed.   
In the moments Valjean fussed with the blankets, Javert became aware of a dizzying sensation of doubt, swirling about his head.   
“Monsieur?”  
Valjean crawled under the thin wool blanket, stretching himself out until his heels kissed the bottom of the bed, and groaned deliciously. And there was that smile Javert knew so well, the one held in reserve for the little boy on the street, demanding nothing but leaving the mayor’s company with a livre in his pocket. It was that smile, but sweeter.   
“Javert, I believe we are on familiar enough terms now that you may call me Valjean. Now, lie down. Sleep.”  
Still uncertain, Javert did as he was asked, slipping in beside the man he’d hunted for the majority of his adult life. The cot was built for only one man, and both of them together left little room for any movement.   
But the ancient mattress felt good on Javert’s tired body, and when Valjean draped an arm over his waist, he didn’t object, letting himself be drawn close, until his back was flush to the taller man’s broad chest.   
Valjean kissed the spot just below the inspector’s impeccable hairline, and chuckled when he felt a shiver course through his cradled body. “Never been touched. Oh Javert, thank you. I am honored to be the first.”  
Javert was silent to this, but he reached down and took the hand resting on his hip, squeezing it tight. Then he sighed, a happy sound which sent Valjean’s heart soaring, and he nuzzled his nose into his old enemy’s scarred and weary shoulder.  
“Good night, Javert.”  
“Good night, Valjean.”


End file.
